


With a Look

by earlybloomingparentheses



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, F/M, Gender being generally a little complicated, M/M, Multi, Post-Hogwarts, Queer Ginny, Threesome, mild gender play, party hookup, queerness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 10:02:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13831857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlybloomingparentheses/pseuds/earlybloomingparentheses
Summary: Now, twenty years old and done with boys and looking forward very much to putting her hand down some lucky girl’s shirt later this evening, Ginny looks at Dean Thomas’s gold-painted fingernails and feels heat pool between her legs.Fuck, she thinks, and flushes, annoyed, ashamed, and then Seamus Finnegan comes up behind Dean and kisses him deep on the mouth, and Ginny’s heart starts to pound.





	With a Look

Ginny is at this party looking to pull.

She’s back home after her first season with the Harpies and she feels so massively changed, so enormously, triumphantly flushed with the success of the team’s record and her quick taut athlete’s body and her burgeoning, blossoming queerness that she rides the high of it all the way to London and some recently-graduated Ravenclaws’ rented-out tumbledown house and into the middle of the dance floor. She’s in short black shorts and black boots and a long-sleeved silver-glitter shirt that hugs her chest so tightly that she’d had to hide it way in the bottom of her bag so her mum wouldn’t find it before Ginny escaped for the weekend to stay at Neville’s flat in the city. Neville skipped out on the party but Ginny had decided that nothing sounded better than drinking a little and dancing a lot and flirting, scandalously, with all the girls she’d known at Hogwarts and, better, all the international transplants who’d flooded Britain after the war. Ginny has dreams of some former Durmstrang girl with red lips and dark hair and a deep, cigarette-hoarse voice.

An hour in, the Weird Sisters are screaming over the speakers about _THAT WICKED STARE / SHE HEXED ME WITH A LOOK_ and Ginny’s making eyes at a blushing blonde girl who’s maybe Belgian, maybe French and who’s at least four years older than Ginny and who, although she’s dancing with a very hot guy at least four years older than that, is sneaking glances at Ginny in between every verse. Hardly a sure thing but Ginny likes a challenge. Some of Ginny’s teammates won’t sleep with supposedly straight girls but Ginny was a supposedly straight girl not that long ago and anyway the thought of luring her away from this very attractive European man is turning her on.

She wipes a sheen of sweat from her lip and thinks _fuck it_ and grabs her shirt by the bottom and pulls it off. She throws it under a side table and raises her arms in the air, feeling freed. Her bra is black with crossed straps in the back and lace around the bottom and she looks fucking amazing in it; she’s proud of the outline of her stomach muscles, the strength of her arms, earned from months of training. She dances, hyperaware of her long legs bare and smooth under her short shorts and her breasts small but round under the fabric.

She looks again for the maybe-Belgian girl but she’s face-to-face with the hot guy now and he’s got his hands low and proprietary on her hips. Ginny rolls her eyes. She glances around the room, looking for another possible target. 

Oh, _shit_. Now that she’s got her shirt off she’s doubled the number of men trying to catch her eye. Maybe half of them she knows and half of them she doesn’t. She’d like to go and shut Justin Finch-Fletchley’s open mouth for him. He looks like a prick with it hanging open like that.

Away from her teammates, away from the very-gay world of women’s Quidditch in which everyone is assumed queer until proven straight, Ginny feels abruptly bereft. The hair tumbling over her shoulders, long and curly, the lace on her bra, even the cut of her boots, slender and stylish, suddenly seem like obstacles. She feels threading through her a flicker of embarrassment—for liking the long curls, the feminine lace. If she’d wanted to pull a girl tonight she should have at least made the effort to look queer.

She shakes it off but her enthusiasm is dampened. Leaving her shirt crumpled on the floor, she makes her way to the drinks table. She doesn’t want to get too drunk because it’s not good for her regimen, but another beer would not go amiss right now. She grabs a bottle from the cooler and opens it up. She takes a long pull and looks around, at the dark overcrowded living room, the manky sofas filled with couples making out, the multicolored fairy lights nailed to the scuffed walls, the disco ball someone has charmed to spin at a nauseating pace. It’s the kind of place Ginny might have ended up had she not taken the job with the Harpies. The kind of place, if a little less well-kept and a little bit bigger, where Ron and Hermione and now Harry live, down off Diagon Alley.

She doesn’t expect to see them here tonight, but she glances around the room anyway, looking for familiar faces. No Harry, which is a relief, but she does spot another ex-boyfriend.

On one of the sagging sofas sits Dean Thomas. He looks taller than ever. He’s cut his hair close to the scalp and it looks elegant, accentuating the long slope of his nose and his glass-cut jaw. The awkwardness he’d carried around at Hogwarts is gone. He looks like he’s grown into his skin.

He looks _good._ Ginny’s eyes travel up and down his body, almost of their own accord, and then snag on his fingers. His fingernails. Even in the dim light she can see they’re painted. They flash, gold or maybe silver, bright against his dark skin.

Heat shoots through Ginny’s body. 

Ginny had dated Dean Thomas when she was fifteen because he was in love with Seamus Finnegan. She had not known that then. She had only known that she was drawn magnetically to his thin artist’s fingers and fine-boned face, his long curled eyelashes and the way he wore his big-necked sweaters, off-kilter with the sweep of his neckbone showing. She’d felt an aura around him, not quite a magic one but almost, a near-tangible weight in the air when he was near, an energy, a quicksand black-hole attraction of her eyes to his body. And she’d loved the friendship between him and Seamus, so different from that between her brother and Harry, somehow, more unspoken, more full of quick bright looks and the easy-uneasy weight of a hand pressed briefly to a shoulder or back. If she’d had to explain it at the time she’d have said she liked that Dean was a bit soft, a bit quiet. Gentler than her brothers, gentler than Harry, gentler than her. She’d not have said that she was still pining after Harry then, nor that she was pining after Harry because he’d become for her a kind of impossible symbol of courage and heroism, nor, certainly, that she’d chosen Dean as a replacement because he also meant something and that what he meant was that neither of them was straight. 

Or maybe that was putting it a little too simply. 

He’d been the first boy whose cock she’d touched, first through his trousers and then naked, and though she’d liked it better clothed, which might seem in retrospect to indicate something important, she had liked it a _lot_ clothed. Those breathless times rubbing up against each other through four layers of fabric, her back or his against the cold stone wall of a secret passageway, were the best sex Ginny had had till she joined an all-female Quidditch team and slept with a woman for the first time a week and a half into training. 

Now, twenty years old and done with boys and looking forward very much to putting her hand down some lucky girl’s shirt later this evening, Ginny looks at Dean Thomas’s gold-painted fingernails and feels heat pool between her legs. 

_Fuck_ , she thinks, and flushes, annoyed, ashamed, and then Seamus Finnegan comes up behind Dean and kisses him deep on the mouth, and Ginny’s heart starts to pound. 

Before she can look away Seamus is caught in someone else’s conversation and Dean is turning his head back to the front, smiling, and his eyes land on hers. 

They fly open, startled, and Ginny just stares, caught, and then Dean smiles again, wide, sweet, and—and a little _challenging_ , and he beckons her to come over. 

Ginny doesn’t shy away from a challenge. She crosses the room, slipping deftly between sweaty, laughing partygoers, and ends up in front of Dean, who’s still smiling. 

“This is a surprisingly classy party,” he says, loud over the music. “I hear there’s a famous Quidditch player here tonight.” 

She grins. “I heard the same about the artist for the _Cara the Cursebreaker_ comics.”

He looks surprised. “You heard about that?” 

“I read it every month.”

“Well,” he says, pleased, “thanks. Sit?”

He’s square in the middle of the sofa but she manages to squeeze next to him with a minimal amount of contact. Ex-boyfriend, or whatever.

He seems to harbor no such qualms and settles his knee comfortably against her leg. “So,” he says, “how are you?”

Ginny’s answer to that question is usually careful, measured in direct proportion to the amount of shit the other person went through during the war, but for some reason she opens her mouth and the truth comes out. 

“Honestly?” she says. “I’m really fucking good.”

Instead of the betrayal and secondhand embarrassment she’s always expected to follow that answer, Dean gives another of his long, slow smiles. It puts delicate crinkles at the corners of his eyes that twist something deep inside her. 

“I’m glad,” he replies. “I mean, I heard about…you and Harry…”

“Yeah,” Ginny says, wincing. “That was kind of a shitshow. But it—it really needed to happen, and then there were the Harpies, and—”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “You’ve had an incredible season.” His knee against her skin is pointed and warm and Ginny really wants to not be noticing it so intensely. “I’m good too, actually,” Dean says, and then: “You, er…heard about me and Seamus?” 

Ginny’d heard from Hermione practically the day they’d gotten together, about a week before she’d left for Wales. Hermione was surprisingly well connected to all the post-Hogwarts gossip. Now Ginny wonders if Hermione had meant something by telling her so quickly about Dean and Seamus. If she’d known, or suspected.

“I heard. That’s great. I’m so glad for you.”

“Thanks,” Dean says. There’s a pause. “So…”

Then, behind him, Seamus swings down and leans over the back of the sofa and gives Ginny a piercing look. “Hey, Weasley.”

“Hi, Seamus,” she says, and maybe feels an unwelcome flicker of guilt about Dean’s knee against her thigh. 

“You haven’t changed after all,” Seamus says, eyes narrowing.

“Seamus—” Dean interrupts.

“What do you mean?” Ginny asks, sensing something lying in wait. 

“Well, Dean and I had a bet—”

“Not a _bet_ ,” Dean interjects.

“—an argument, then,” Seamus says.

Ginny raises her eyebrows. Her shoulders have gone tense. “About me?”

“Aye.” Seamus smiles, sharp-toothed. Possibly he has not forgiven her for dating Dean. “We wondered if you’d come back with the classic Harpies lesbian haircut. Thought it might be a required part of the uniform.” 

Something stabs through Ginny’s stomach, punching the air out of her. Seamus is mocking her, somehow, for not—for not looking gay enough. Or, no, for not _being_ — 

“They don’t take you straight to the barber the first time you go down on a woman,” she says, voice casual, pose full of the bravado she learned from one of the Harpies’ Beaters, a broad-shouldered six-foot-tall dyke with a killer Bludger arm. “That’s not what scissoring means, you know.”

Dean chokes on a nonexistent drink and sputters into his hands, leaning forward over his knees to wheeze heavily. Seamus stares at her, then lets out a full-throated laugh and vaults over the back of the sofa, ending up half in his boyfriend’s lap.

“Fuck, Weasley,” he says, “I’d forgotten what a bad idea it is to cross you.”

Feeling as though she’s passed some sort of test and flushed with the victory, Ginny smirks and crosses her arms behind her head, showing off her bare stomach, the lace of her bra. Dean pounds his chest and Seamus shakes his head.

“Well,” he says. “Glad Dean and I aren’t the only ones out of the closet now. And glad because that makes the way you were eyeing him up a minute ago just a little less…objectionable.”

Ginny’s not used to getting knocked off kilter so many times in one night. She feels her ears burn. She wants to clarify, to protest. She clears her throat. “I, erm,” she says. “I wasn’t…”

She was, but she wasn’t.

“It’s not…like that.” 

Seamus puts his hand at the nape of Dean’s neck, stroking a thumb up the side, and Dean’s long lashes flutter and Ginny’s do, too.

“I get it,” says Seamus. “He’s very pretty.” 

_Pretty_. Yes. It’s true. It _is_ like that. Dean Thomas is and has always been pretty. Ginny, now as before, wants to look and look and look. He’s wearing bright white shoes with no socks, his slender ankles bare for an inch or two below the bottoms of his tight dark jeans. His legs are straight and slim and almost like a girl’s, but longer, less curved, and his hips—so narrow—somehow feminine because of their impossibly masculine shape. And his black shirt, thin and artfully worn, covering his flat chest that Ginny knows is smooth and hairless.

If it were just that he looked like a girl Ginny might be able to pass it off as some confused queer wire-crossing but the ways in which he is feminine make him look not like a girl but a gay man. Which he is.

And which Ginny should not find attractive.

_He’s not for you_ , Ginny says to the heat rising again between her legs.

Dean puts his hand on her bare skin, just above her knee, and she nearly flinches back.

“What is it?” he says softly. Gently.

Because her eyes are filling with tears. Out of absolutely nowhere, she is on the verge of crying.

“What the fuck,” she says helplessly, and Dean’s thumb strokes against her leg, and the tears she’s choking back don’t stop the goosebumps-shiver that runs through her at the touch.

“Ginny?” Dean asks. Seamus is watching her too, gaze unreadable but not unkind. 

“I,” she says, and swallows as one, two tears escape down her face, “I look so much like a _girl._ ”

Behind Dean, Seamus shifts. He opens his mouth. “I,” he says, “I didn’t mean to make you feel like—like that was a bad thing—”

“I was already feeling it,” she admits, and there’s another tear, she’s crying in front of her ex-boyfriend and his boyfriend and, “because—because I _like_ looking like this.”

“Well, you look fucking hot,” says Dean, and she emits a sudden startled laugh, and he laughs too, “What, you do, and nobody says you have to look a certain way to be gay—”

“Queer,” says Ginny in a rush, and all sorts of honesty is spilling from her mouth tonight, “I’m not a lesbian—I—”

“Dean’s bisexual,” Seamus interrupts, “at least a little—”

“I’m not bi either,” Ginny says, face hot, ashamed, feeling like she is betraying something or someone, a long history, a whole community, maybe her teammates, too, “I’m just—queer.” 

Dean nods. His hand is still on her leg. “That’s all right,” he says. 

“I know it’s all right.” Ginny dashes tears angrily from her eyes. “I fucking know. I just. Some things. I shouldn’t—”

Seamus reaches forwards as the words spill from her mouth and puts his hand on top of Dean’s and slides it up Ginny’s leg till their fingers rest together in the V of her black shorts, a breath away from her crotch.

She stares at him, a wave of arousal slamming through her.

“We’re queer too,” Seamus says quietly, and Dean nods, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

A series of extremely graphic images flashes suddenly through her head, leaving her short of breath and a little dizzy and feeling pulses of heat between her legs and in her breasts and in her arse, too, and they are in a crowded room full of people, and, “Do you maybe want to dance?” Ginny asks. 

In answer Seamus grabs both their hands and pulls them to their feet and leads them into the middle of the dance floor. As the music pounds through them, Dean presses up close to Ginny, facing her, his chest nearly touching her tits, and Seamus slides behind her and, less of a gentleman than Dean, doesn’t hesitate to push himself flush against her back. 

Ginny feels nearly delirious already as they start to move, sweat breaking out on her forehead and her breasts swinging to brush Dean’s T-shirt and she can’t tell if she wants him to cup his hands around them, letting the swell of them fill his fingers, or if she wants him to press down on them till they’re nearly as flat as his own chest. Instead he puts one burning-hot hand on her bare stomach and her head tips back, Seamus’ breath hot in her ear.

He’s rubbing against her arse with clear intent and she can feel him just starting to stiffen. Dean moves in and she thinks he’s going to kiss her and instead he kisses Seamus, his clean-shaven cheek brushing, still rough, against hers as he puts his tongue in his boyfriend’s mouth.

She can’t believe she is allowed to _have_ this. She feels impossibly aroused, hot in a way she usually does only when she’s touching herself, warmth cresting in her scalp and down through her toes. This, sandwiched between two men with their lips on each other’s, should not be happening; even now she feels the shame of it, of her desire, for Dean, for the long elegant lines of his waist and the long dark curls of his lashes, for Seamus, his hips grinding against her arse like he knows what to do with an arse, which, she has to admit, the women she’s slept with mostly don’t; she _wants_ them both and she shouldn’t, they are not _for her_ and she is not _them_ —

She loves her long hair and her breasts and her curved hips with a ferocity that surprises or offends most people, loves the athletic tumble of naked breasts and bellies and yes, running her fingers through that classic Harpies lesbian haircut but in this moment she wants the flat chest and hips and delicate fine-boned cheeks of a visibly gay man, wants not just to touch but to have, for herself, for her own body, she wants to be bent over and opened up and spread wide but not as a woman, as—as— 

“Hang on,” she gasps, putting her hand on Dean’s chest and putting some distance between his bulging crotch and her own heat-flushed one, “Seamus, just—I—”

“What,” he murmurs in her ear, his dick definitely hard now against the seat of her tiny black shorts, and she says, “I’m going to come right on this dance floor if we don’t slow it down.” 

“You could, though,” Seamus replies, low, hips still moving against hers, “no one notices if girls come in their pants. I’ve always been jealous of that.”

She does almost come, right then and there. But Dean puts out a hand and grasps Seamus’ shoulder. He looks wrecked, too, or right on the edge of it. She thinks possibly the two of them are on the same page about this. 

“But what if you fucked my arse for real,” she says breathlessly, quietly. “What if one of you fucked my arse.”

“Dean?” Seamus says, meeting his eyes, a quick glance shooting between them from which Ginny is momentarily but entirely excluded, and then Dean nods, rapidly.

“Bathroom,” Ginny grits out, and they stumble over each other in their haste, cramming into the small room and shutting the door, Seamus casting a spell to lock it and Dean casting a Silencing Charm, and Ginny sweating and nearly out of her mind with wanting this. The bathroom sink is grimy and the tile cracked, and the bulb overhead is burned out; the room is lit instead by several floating purple orbs someone clever and possibly high has charmed to hover near the ceiling. Ginny ends up more or less where she was on the dance floor, sandwiched between Seamus in back and Dean in front, though Dean’s not making any moves to keep a respectable distance between them anymore. Instead, he’s fumbling with his trousers as he presses his chest against hers. Seamus has his hands wrapped around Ginny’s front and is fumbling with _her_ trousers. Somehow Dean gets his down and between them Ginny and Seamus pull off her shorts and behind her Ginny hears the sound of a zipper that means Seamus is doing the same, and the logistics of three people are slightly more complicated than two, as it turns out; but then Dean tugs down her panties and Seamus pushes his bare cock against her arse and she remembers exactly why she is doing this.

“Holy shit,” she mutters, throwing her head back. “Yes. Fuck.”

“Dean,” Seamus says. His voice is low and spine-shivering in Ginny’s ear. “Hold her open.”

Dean reaches behind her and puts his hands on her arse cheeks and pulls them apart. Ginny moans, shocked. His fingers, those long artist’s fingers, press into the muscles of her arse, not hard but—but impossibly _present,_ impossibly _there_ , like a brand on her tender skin. Each fingertip burns sensation into her. Cool air presses against her arsehole. She feels so—open, so— _exposed_. Her skin is crawling with need.

Dean gets in close to her, his prick hard in his pants against her crotch, in some approximation of the sex they used to have when they were dating, rubbing up against each other with desperate need, only this is more honest and much filthier. She feels Seamus step back, feels him fumble with his wand, and he utters a murmured spell she doesn’t recognize and then: 

“Merlin’s _tits_ ,” she gasps, because her arsehole is suddenly slick and—and—“Oh my god,” she says, wide-eyed, “oh my god.” She can feel the spell doing— _something—_ to her—it’s stretching her out, relaxing her muscles, back _there,_ and it—it aches a little, but— 

“Yeah?” Dean asks, smiling, his fingers still holding her open.

She nods, swallowing, unable to speak. Her desire is lodged in her throat, impossibly tight; it’s roaring in her ears, deafening and insistent. When Seamus slips a finger towards her hole it slides inside easily. A cracked half-gasp issues from her mouth—his finger in her arse is slippery and obscene, the whole situation feels slippery and obscene, something Ginny is only barely holding onto, holding together. Even when she first started hooking up with women she prided herself on her control in bed: she’s bossy, demanding, all wicked grins and witty comebacks and now—now—

“The wonders of modern magic,” Seamus says, as Ginny’s arsehole spasms open a little more, still widening of its own accord as he pushes in his finger and then pulls it out again. “Speaking of…” She hears a rustle and twists her neck around to look. Color is rising in his cheeks and his eyes are glittering but his hands are steady as he opens up a self-unrolling condom. “You too?” he asks Dean.

Dean makes quick eye contact with Ginny. They freeze for a moment, gazes locked, while, as if disconnected from any conscious will or thought, they continue to rub against each other, Dean hard in his pants pushing against Ginny’s wet cunt. 

Quickly, she shakes her head. “I mean,” she hastens to add, “wear one if you like. But, I, uh…” She’s already flushed with arousal and excitement but she feels herself growing even pinker. “I was thinking—just like this…” 

His dick in his pants rubbing against her, she means. Just like this. Just like they used to do. He nods. “Yes,” he says, voice strangled, and nods again. “Let’s…just…” 

“Yeah. Yes.”

“Great,” Seamus says, with amused impatience that makes both Ginny and Dean look down in a quick flush of embarrassment, and then Seamus slides his cock against her slick hole and pushes in.

With a choked-off breath Ginny clutches at Dean’s shoulders, all the air knocked out of her lungs. She grips Dean tight as Seamus moves in, closer and deeper, feeling the strain of it, the resistance. There is a moment in which this act feels impossible and outrageous—her body protesting and Ginny shot through with the lit-up sensation of crossing a line not meant to be crossed—and then, all at once, in a long hot slide, Seamus is inside her. 

And Dean’s fingers press deeper into her skin, stretching her arse cheeks farther apart, opening her up for his boyfriend. 

Ginny’s head falls forward against his shoulder. Dean leans his head close and puts his tongue in Seamus’ mouth. Ginny feels them come together around her, pressed between them, and it’s like they’re trying to reach each other through her body: Seamus’ dick pushing farther in and Dean’s rubbing against her cunt, both of them pushing their chests waists legs cocks against her till they’re plastered along her front and her back and she can barely catch a breath. She’s wet, stupidly wet, and in addition to the overwhelming vise grip of Dean and Seamus’ bodies her head is spinning with the reality of the fact that she’s got, for the first time in her life, a cock up her arse, and it’s bloody _incredible._

Seamus rocks against her, jolting something inside her, a quick burst of discomfort that fizzles immediately into pleasure, and she feels full, and overstuffed, and _caught_ : Dean’s fingers pressing into her arse cheeks, his tall slender body a steady unyielding weight for her to push against like breakers against a concrete pier as Seamus propels her forward again and again.

“We’ve never done this with a girl before,” Seamus pants in her ear, his hands gripping her hips as he thrusts.

Heat drenches through Ginny. Sweat is breaking out on her forehead, under her breasts, between her clenched thighs; everywhere slippery, improbable. Ginny whines as Dean licks her collarbone and mouths at her neck.

“Usually it’s some Muggle bloke we’ve picked up in a bar,” Seamus continues, as steadily he pushes into her in long even thrusts. “Begging me to stroke his dick while Dean holds him open for me to fuck. Just like he’s holding you open.” 

The breath punches out of Ginny with every stroke. Her arsehole pulses hot and hotter as Seamus moves. And Dean’s clothed cock rubs against her dripping cunt and that’s so good, too, waves of sensation that climb and climb. 

“You like a cock up your arse?” Seamus murmurs. 

Ginny almost laughs at the obviousness of the answer, a high-pitched yelp that she manages not to let out. Instead she clutches Dean, urgent, pulling him down lower so he’s moving against her in just the right spot. She gasps and he gasps as they hit that perfect angle, and everything ratchets up to fever pitch. 

“She does like it,” Dean says to Seamus, his voice high and strained, his throat long and so smooth as he tips his head back. “She likes—likes fucking me. Always has.” 

“Dean—” Ginny gasps out, at just the same time as Seamus.

“And you like being one of our boys,” Dean says to her breathlessly, long beautiful eyelashes fluttering, and Ginny comes. Orgasm rocks through her as Seamus keeps thrusting: and her arsehole contracts, helplessly, again and again, around his cock, as if to hold it in, or push it out, and Dean shoves his prick against her and holds her tight and lets her press her cunt against him for as long as she needs, which is a really fucking long time: she is still coming, Seamus still thrusting again each time her orgasm starts to recede, and finally she gives up struggling to control it and just goes limp, held between the two of them, and lets it shake through her until at long last it shakes out.

“Oh,” Dean murmurs, as Ginny sags lightheaded in his grip, “oh god—Seamus—” 

“Yes,” he pants. “Ginny, do you want me to—”

“You can finish,” she says, breathless, nearly dizzy, so hot she feels feverish, “it’s okay, it’s good—” Her arsehole is still burning hot and on the other side of orgasm she feels weirdly, bizarrely full with him but not—it’s not a bad feeling—

He starts to move again, grunting, frantic now. 

“Oh, Seamus,” Dean gasps, “come inside—inside him—”

With an explosive curse Seamus’s grip tightens bruisingly and he pushes hard into Ginny and she can feel him coming inside her and she’s seeing fucking _stars_ , she’s wrung out but the last helpless aftershocks of her orgasm swallow her up. And then Dean steps back and shoves a hand into his pants and, eyes on the pair of them, strokes himself a few times and comes.

They hold there for a long moment, suspended, breathing hard. When Seamus finally pulls out of Ginny she feels strange. Loose, and a little tender.

Dean says, “Was that all right?”

A glimmer of worry has come into his face. Otherwise he looks _wrecked_ : the damp spreading patch in his pants, his swollen lips, the sheen of sweat on his delicate cheekbones, his long eyelashes casting shadows on his skin in the purple light.

Ginny nods, too winded for words.

“What I said,” Dean clarifies. 

She nods again. 

“You’re a surprisingly good lay, Weasley,” Seamus puts in unexpectedly, wiping his arm over his forehead. Ginny whips around to look at him, and all at once they all three crack a smile. 

She clears her throat as she leans back against the sink, pushing her sticky hair off her neck. “You’re not bad yourself, Finnegan.” 

Dean snorts. His right hand is dripping with come.

“Shall we clean up and rejoin the party before this gets awkward?” Seamus asks cheerfully.

Dean reaches out with his clean hand and rubs his thumb affectionately over Ginny’s cheek. His gold nail polish glints. “No awkwardness,” he says. She smiles at him. “Ginny’s one of ours.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ebp-brain)!


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